Undeniable
by who-lock-loki-lover
Summary: When Moriarty leaves Sherlock Holmes and John Watson at the pool, the men are forced to confront some of their most vulnerable and unspoken emotions. They can no longer deny the bond of their friendship, and they struggle to accept there could be more than friendship in their feelings. Rated "M" for an amazing bedroom scene in Chapter 8.
1. A Fear of Loss and The Great Game

The gun shook violently at his side. Sherlock paced. He could not let his nerves get the best of him, but he could not let his guard down for an instant, either.

"I'm glad no one saw that."

"Hm?" the ever-apathetic detective turned, shaking with a never before felt nervousness.

"You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk," John smiled through his fear and shook his head.

"People do little else," Sherlock's voice trembled, but he managed a grin. It soothed him to hear John joking in such a casual manner.

Mere moments ago, a bomb was strapped to John Watson's chest, ready to detonate and stop his heart… yet here we was, still managing to make humour through the strife. The army taught John to be strong physically, but John's emotional strength was genuine. He had seen pain, he had seen loss, yet still he knew that life went on and his spirit could not be conquered. John was just thrilled to be alive, and Sherlock was glad for it, as well. His best friend nearly died right in front of him, though. Sherlock could not shake off that horror so easily.

The detective stifled nervous laughter and smiled at his friend, blinking furiously to keep himself from crying. Watson chuckled and looked up gratefully at Sherlock. The gun finally stopped shaking in his hand. No matter how many times he had denied it—Sherlock was his friend. The man was not some distant colleague, and he was no ordinary flatmate. John genuinely cared for Sherlock, and it was evidently mutual. At that moment, both men accepted this silently shared revelation. There would be no more pretending, now. No more distance, no more callous denials of their friendship. They were the best of friends, and they would be for the rest of their lives.

"Sorry, boys! I'm soooo changeable! It is a weakness with me. But to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness." The man's voice rang through the pool room and echoed off the walls. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

The sing-songy voice of Jim Moriarty pierced Sherlock to the bone and made his blood run cold. Abhorrence blanketed his mind his mind, and adrenaline rushed through his whirring consciousness. No. He would not allow it to end this way. Sherlock almost lost John once, and Moriarty had the pleasure of watching the horror play out on his grief stricken face. He would not give Moriarty the satisfaction of breaking him like that again.

Sherlock looked over to John, communicating silently. His eyes were relit with fear, but he nodded in certain response—he trusted the detective with his life. Sherlock took a deep breath and swallowed any sign of anxiety. He turned slowly and pointed his gun at his detested enemy. "Probably my answer has crossed yours," he said, keeping his voice level.

If he and John were going to die that day, they wouldn't be going alone. He lowered the gun inch by inch, heart pounding. Sherlock did not deal fickle bluffs. Moriarty could either let them go, or burn with them for eternity in the explosion. He aimed his steady gun at the jacket of explosives. He wasn't afraid to die. He was only afraid to lose.

He would not lose this game, though. Sherlock would not let himself lose John.

*Stay tuned for more! The coming chapters are wonderful*


	2. Secrets and Childish Charades

The next moments raced by in a blur. A fright, a phone call, another departure of the James… and miraculously their lives had been spared. They were left alone in the pool room, shocked and fearfully confused.

The detective's mind shrieked in panic and he frantically looked around the room. The snipers' red dots had stopped aiming at John, but he didn't trust it. Minutes passed in which John sat in exhaustion and Sherlock searched restlessly to ensure that they were truly safe.

Once he felt confident they were alone, Sherlock lent Watson a hand and helped him to his feet. Both standing, they lingered a moment, hands still interlocked between them. Sherlock looked into John's unassuming eyes with a smile and held his dear friend close.

Leaning gratefully into the embrace, John gathered his bearings. He'd be lost without his consulting detective. This day would live eternally in the mind of Dr. John H. Watson. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso in exultation. Tears brimmed over the edges of the detective's eyes just a bit at the feeling of Watson's arms around him. It felt… _safe_. John was safe now, and Sherlock was too. He pulled away from John for a moment, slightly ashamed of his display of emotion. Luckily, John hadn't see the tears. He wiped his eyes and nearly turned to leave, but he changed his mind and embraced John once more. He just felt so _grateful._ John was alive, and that's all that mattered.

When Holmes pulled back, he beamed brightly at his friend, "Let's go home."

Together they walked. John's limp had somewhat returned from the trauma of that evening, but he knew he was safe—after all, he was with Sherlock. He walked with one arm around the detective for support, and Sherlock was obsessively cautious about hurting John's leg. He wished so desperately that he had John's cane. It nagged at Sherlock's conscious to see the limp return. He wanted to fix it, to make it all okay again, but he couldn't think of a way to help.

For a while, they walked in silence. Sherlock could tell John had grown weary, and looked around for a taxi. However, there was no cab in sight and he was forced to improvise.

"I'm starving!" he declared. It was nearly 3 in the morning, by this time. "Shall we?" he proposed as they approached a café. He did not wait for an answer and pulled John in anyway, eager to give John's leg a break.

Sherlock rattled off a lengthy and painfully specific order to the wide-eyed waitress. She blinked stupidly, and Sherlock made the poor besieged girl recite it back to him. He corrected her four times about miniscule details, and then she looked skittishly over at John.

"Just toast and a cuppa for me, thanks," he nodded courteously. "She's a flighty one," he observed as she scurried away.

"Hm? Oh, yes. She has an abusive father and being around grown men most likely terrifies her. Probably shouldn't have gone into the service industry with trauma like that," he thoughtlessly rambled as he rearranged his silverware and place setting with a vacant expression.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Hm, yes, why wouldn't I be?"

"Well… for starters, I could have been blown up today."

"But you weren't."

"But I could have been," he paused. "It's okay that you were scared."

"Oh, don't be stupid. I was not."

"Oh, but you were."

Sherlock ignored him.

"And you hugged me! I'm sure you're about to deny that as well?" John shook his head and exhaled in frustration.

"No," Sherlock kept his eyes on the place setting and smiled knowingly. "I recall that quite clearly."

For a silent moment, John watched Sherlock smile to himself. When the busy detective finally looked up from his silverware, his expression was cheery. For a moment, John thought about how much he liked this side of Sherlock. Sometimes he became playful, rambunctious, and nearly childlike. It was an amazing transformation. The entire room would brighten up, just a bit when he was in this juvenile mood. This side of Sherlock was friendly, perhaps even endearing, and his eyes gleamed so brilliantly when he looked up at his dear Watson. Yes, John truly loved the playful energy behind Sherlock's eyes.

"So…" inquired John teasingly, "Is it just me, or does Moriarty seem to have a crush on you?"

"Oh, my, how could he not? I am a pretty hard man to resist, John. It must be my cheekbones! Or perhaps it's my height."

"Or those gorgeous curls!"

"My uncanny intellect!"

"Certainly not your modesty!"

"No, not a chance," Sherlock grinned at their meaningless banter.

John shook his head, laughing while Sherlock pretended to admire himself in the reflection of his spoon.

"Dashing as ever!" he proclaimed, primping in his undoubtedly handsome reflection.

"Alright, then. I think you've made your point."

"Oh, nonsense, John! You know my narcissism well enough by now!"

John smiled uncertainly. Yes, he loved this Sherlock, but the demeanor he expressed was so uncharacteristic. John's eyebrows furrowed, and he began to feel nervous for his friend. "Sherlock, what has gotten into you today?"

"Tonight," he corrected smugly. "Wait, it's technically morning. Damn, it is 'today,' then! Can't believe I mucked that up! Oh, and to answer your question, I haven't the slightest idea," he shrugged and flashed John an infuriatingly innocent smile. John nearly dropped the subject, but something in the cunning detective's eyes betrayed his naivety.


	3. Forced to Face the Truth

Sherlock and Watson began their trek home once again. John's mind was so full of uncertainty. Something was amiss with Sherlock, but John couldn't figure out quite what it was.

"Can we talk about today?"

"Alright. What about it?"

"I don't know. Anything."

Sherlock looked up at the dark sky in deep thought. "My eggs were runny."

"Your… eggs? I almost died, and you want to talk about your rotten breakfast?" John's face flushed in frustration.

"You said 'anything.'"

"Well, anything but your ruddy eggs!" John shouted. Just once, _once_, John wanted to get a straight answer out of that man. He was fed up with being blindly dragged around by Sherlock's secrets and unspoken agendas.

"Care to narrow that subject down, or is 'anything but eggs' a narrow enough spectrum for you?" Holmes smiled.

"Today, Sherlock! At the pool. Moriarty? _Me?!_ Anything!"

"Try not to get your knickers in a bunch, John. I have nothing to say on the matter."

"There was a bomb strapped to my chest and snipers were aimed at our hearts! We could be dead right now! Is that not conversation worthy?"

Sherlock was silent. They had nearly reached their flat on Baker Street.

"Does that mean nothing to you?" John cried, desperately searching for answers.

"Enlighten me!" Sherlock's voice exploded on the darkened street. "Please, John, I beg of you. Tell me why I would want to discuss the bomb that was strapped to the chest of the one person I care about. Why would I even want to _remember_ that the only friend I've ever had was nearly blown to pieces before my eyes?! There's no point in chatting about it! You are alive, _not_ dead! Why must you nag so incessantly about it?" He shoved his key into the door of 221 and stormed inside.

"Because I was scared, Sherlock! Because I'm thankful that I'm alive!" John shouted, following him onto the stairs of flat B.

Sherlock turned to face Watson and glared into the blue eyes he adored so much. He loomed over John. "And you think I'm not?" he whispered bitterly. His knuckles were white from gripping the railing so hard.

His voice was followed by a haunting silence, piercingly cold compared to their shouting match. John had chills, and his expression softened from irritation to astonishment. He'd never seen Sherlock so avid, so passionately offended…. He had always been so cold and distant. Now, he stood vehemently before John with bloodshot eyes and a face expressing the pain of raw emotion.

"I nearly lost the only person I care about." Sherlock's face was stern but his voice remained soft. "If there's one thing I shouldn't have to prove, John, it's that you are the only person I have ever dared to love, and losing you would have _killed_ me." The detective's ever comprehending eyes bore into John's. He searched resolutely for a response, but found no final consolation. Sherlock suddenly felt vulnerable and exposed. He didn't even recall telling his _parents_ that he loved them. He was the great Sherlock Holmes, married to his work, prizing nothing but his intellect and a demanding case. Now there was John, a retired army doctor with nerves of steel and unfaltering loyalty. John was the only person who had ever trusted him. To Sherlock, John was everything: a friend, a colleague… and undoubtedly something more.

_No_, he decided. He mustn't leave himself so vulnerable. He turned, leaving John on the stairs, paralyzed by shock and incomprehension.


	4. Faulted Emotions

Sherlock locked himself in his room for hours, playing a melancholy lament. He pondered as his bow slid gently across the strings of his violin. The consistent music would have woken John, had he any wish to sleep. Instead, the doctor laid in bed, wondering what could be going on in his flatmate's ever processing mind. John felt uneasy, but he assured himself that it was only shock. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, his mind ran in circles. _'He get's off on it,' _he could hear Sally saying in the back of his head. But _did _Sherlock get off on such ghastly thrills? He certainly wasn't getting off when John's life was in danger. _'Losing you would have killed me,' _Sherlock had told him. Yet, in John's uncertainty, Mycroft's words now echoed,_ 'He does love to be dramatic.'_ John searched hard, but couldn't find the line that separated Sherlock's drama from the truth.

After a while, the playing stopped. John listened intently as Sherlock traveled to the study. Mentally occupied, he began to shuffle about the papers on his desk. Thinking that Sherlock was researching a case, John entered the room. "Don't you know what time it is?"

"Three twenty-three," Sherlock mumbled without looking up. He didn't appear to be doing anything productive. He just moved around his documents and police reports fretfully. John stood expectantly in the doorway, trying to analyze his peculiar flatmate. He made it clear that he had no intention of leaving. Upon this realization, the detective paused and let out a sigh. John wanted answers. After all that Sherlock had put the innocent man through, he deserved to know the truth. Sherlock attempted to swallow his pride and sat on the sofa. This wouldn't be easy for him, but he owed John an explanation. He placed his palms together and placed his fingers against his lips in deep concentration. Finally, his eyes closed and he leaned back in abashed resignation. "I'm sorry, John."

John was taken aback. "For… what?"

The detective looked up at John, wondering why the brave man would stay around after all the grief that Sherlock had caused. "Do you still want me to talk about last night?"

"Sure," John replied, not entirely sure if he was prepared for Sherlock's testimony.

"It's my fault. All of it. The Black Lotus abduction and now Moriarty…. Don't you see that I'm the reason only you're in danger? The Black Lotus thought you were _me_ and tried to torture information out of you. Now Moriarty has kidnapped youto get to _me, _and he's still out there. I have no doubt that he'll be back, and next time might be worse_._ If he were to hurt you, it would be _my_ fault. Entirely. I know it to be true, and there is no use denying it, John. I am a danger to you. As long as I'm around, you are not safe. Before, I mentioned that I care about you. It was no lie. I do care about you John, and I loathe myself with unfathomable intensity for letting them harm you."

John listened in patient awe as Sherlock confessed his detestation and regret. He began to break down and concluded his sorrows with a heartbroken query. "What's happened to me? I was always so strong. I could endure anything. Now just look at me… weak. What is this torture?"

John leaned against the mantle and looked at the floor. "Well, I could be mistaken, but I think it's called feeling."

"I despise it."

"I'm not surprised," Watson mumbled unconsciously. However, upon looking up and seeing Sherlock's face, John's heart softened in sympathy. He sighed, "You shouldn't despise it. Everyone has feelings. It's normal. It's healthy. Not always enjoyable, but it's human and that's what makes us tick." He sat on the ground next to Sherlock, his back against the sofa. For a short time both men were silent, no doubt thinking the same thoughts.

Sherlock reached down from the couch and placed his hand on his dear Watsons's shoulder. "John," he said softly, making eye contact, "I'm thankful that you're safe."

John's blue eyes twinkled, and he covered Sherlock's hand with his own. "Me too, Sherlock. Me too."


	5. Curious Behaviour

A few hours later, John woke up. John still sat on the floor, his head leaning on Sherlock's leg. Yawning, John checked the time. He couldn't remember falling asleep, but dawn had broken on baker street.

"Good morning," Sherlock said ordinarily as ever. His one hand still rested on John's shoulder, while he used his other to send a text message.

"You could have taken your hand back, you know." John stretched.

"I only needed one," he stated indifferently, keeping his hand on Watson's shoulder. John grinned at Sherlock's purposeful nonchalance. Sherlock could be very sentimental at times, whether he would admit it or not. He enjoyed being able to keep his hand on Watson's shoulder as he slumbered.

"I think we just slept together, Sherlock," John jokingly observed.

"Oh, yes. Quite literally," Sherlock said with a small smirk.

"How're you holding up?"

Sherlock gave a histrionic sigh and ran his fingers through his mussed brunette curls. "Better than before, I suppose…. Yet there's something that's still not quite right." His cunning eyes traveled to John's, and John grinned with unspoken affection. The two men gazed at each other for a while, but their reverence was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson knocking at the door. Sherlock called her in and she entered the flat with a tray of breakfast.

Mrs. Hudson was beaming. "Oh! It's so good to see you boys getting on again. That nasty spat last night had me worried! I'm not sure who started it, but thank goodness it's over. I suppose all couples have their quarrels, but it's always nice when you boys manage to work it out." She winked at Sherlock. "I'll be leaving you two to your breakfast, now. Sherlock, just send me another message if you want anything else."

At the mention of couples, John had blushed and looked away. Sherlock, on the other hand, gave a proudly haughty smile. His hand still remained on John's shoulder. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I'll let you know if there's anything more we need."

Positively beaming, she gave the boys a keen final glance and left the flat. When Mrs. Hudson departed, John gaped incredulously. "Does she honestly think I didn't see that? That wink? And when did Mrs. Hudson get into texting, anyway?"

Sherlock smiled, glad that John caught her suggestive gesture. "She learned to text just last week, but she responds torturously slow. And Mrs. Hudson was never good at being underhanded with things like that. She probably thought you wouldn't see." He got up to pour some tea, and John noticed that Sherlock was uncommonly comfortable. Someone who didn't know Sherlock would detect nothing abnormal, but John knew that even in his own home, Sherlock was uptight and high-strung. The manner in which he carried himself now was relaxed and calmly self-assured.

Sherlock sat by Watson's side on the floor and sipped his tea. John couldn't seem to look away from the detective. It was all so peculiar. No, it was far too _normal. _That's why it put John off so much. At this moment, Sherlock seemed like any regular human being. It was somewhat nice, but still very, very unusual. Holmes noticed John's stare, but he certainly did not mind. He rather enjoyed the attention.

"Have you read the paper yet?"

"Oh, boring. I might as well watch telly if I want to hear rubbish."

"Ah…" John paused, trying to think of something to say. He was eager to fill the silence between them. "Have you got any plans today?"

Sherlock smiled deviously and took a sip of his tea. "Nope. And neither have you."

John scrunched his eyebrows together, "Sherlock, I have to go to work today. I have appointments."

"I called you in sick. Told them you had a rough night. Sarah wasn't happy, but I suppose she wasn't very fond of me. Of course, she thinks that it's all my fault you're missing work."

"It _is_ your fault."

"Well, sure, but she's certainly biased and would have come to that conclusion no matter my involvement. In any case, we're staying in for the day!" John felt a strange, fiery sensation at Sherlock's words. "The night, too, I suppose," Holmes continued.

Watson became antsy. He got up and began moving around the flat skittishly, avoiding eye contact with Sherlock, who watched him curiously.

"What on earth are you doing?" Sherlock chuckled, amused by John's erratic behaviour. His flatmate ignored him. "Oh, come on. What could possibly be making you ignoring me right now? John," Sherlock got up and blocked the path of his pacing. With his head cocked to the side, he examined John's expression and smiled, "Ohh, I see."


	6. A Humanity that Cannot be Denied

"I'll be off to my room then," he sputtered nervously. "It's still early. I should catch up on my sleep." He hurried off to his room and closed his door.

Sherlock watched him leave, then walked to John's door, listening. He could hear John pacing. From the angle of the knob, he knew that John had left the door unlocked, but he didn't go in quite yet. He could, but no… that would be too easy. He liked the idea of letting John squirm a little while longer.

One gentle knock sounded at his door and Watson froze. Holmes never came into his room—nor had he ever wanted to. Sherlock waited for a moment before letting himself in. John's room was illuminated by a light blue haze streaming in from his open window. The morning air was crisp and cool, but John was sweating profusely. As Sherlock opened the door, John did a spectacular imitation of a deer trapped in oncoming headlights. Sherlock made a deliberate pause in the doorway to glance around the room. "I can't believe I've never looked through your bedroom before. It's rather telling."

John looked around, but saw nothing 'telling' about his personal quarters. Either Sherlock was purposely making small-talk—which would be a first—or he really deduced something about John based on his room. Either way, John remain unnerved.

He gradually made his way to Watson, never looking direct at him. He smiled inwardly when he noticed John's cane propped against the bureau. It must have been sitting there, untouched, for at least a week. John had overcome his relapse remarkably quickly, as he currently had no problem putting weight on his feet. It wasn't until Sherlock was a foot or two away from John that he looked John in the eyes. Sherlock's expression made him uncomfortable. Without thinking, John blurted out, "You were scared." And the glint in Sherlock's eyes died out.

"_Must _we linger on that subject? It's subjective and it's not even _important_ anymore!" He was becoming agitated. Of course Watson would ruin a perfectly good mood with something sentimental and irrelevant. He fell to the bed and sulked like a child.

"Oh, don't throw a hissy, Sherlock. You can't just drop an emotional topic because it's not 'important' to you. Emotions are _supposed _to be subjective! That's how they work! Not everyone can be as analytic and cold blooded as you. Nothing's 'important' to you unless it's a stupid piece in some mysterious puzzle."

"That's a lie!" Sherlock snapped, suddenly furious. The words 'cold-blooded' pierced him so hard that he was socked he did not start bleeding out at that very moment. Sherlock was anything but cold-blooded. He was guarded. He carried on. It's the way in which he was accustomed, and Sherlock had good reasons to ignore his emotions. It was incredibly simple. He could either ignore feelings or fall victim to them. Suffer irrational mood swings, or thrive in rationality and objectivity past the inherent pains of life.

"Is it? Because I swear I wasn't worth a damn in your eyes until I became a piece of Moriarty's sick puzzle!"

Sherlock swallowed and attempted to suppress his anger. "Watch yourself, John."

"Oh! I'm sorry. Were you experiencing a feeling just there? How terrible! You poor thing, having feelings like a normal person. Stepping off of your pedestal and demoting yourself to the ranks of the common. I'm sorry you're so mortified by the idea of loving anyone but your own egocentric ass."

Sherlock convulsed. _"SHUT UP!"_

"Then get out."

Holmes' expression went blank. He felt like a fool, a reaction he was unfamiliar with. John was right. He _was _egocentric, so much so that the strength of John's assertion threw him off balance. He'd gone and ruined a perfectly fine morning. He had only wanted be alone with Watson, and now he was getting himself kicked out. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. He tried to shake off the emotion, but despair came over him nonetheless. Perhaps if he had learned to handle him emotions instead of suppressing them, he wouldn't be such a horrible friend to John.

His mate sat in a huff beside him, and Sherlock reached out to take his hand. He was still irritated, but the gesture confounded Watson and he looked to Sherlock for understanding. All he found, though, was Holmes covering his face in humility. John looked down at his hand. Sherlock's knuckles were turning white. A single tear fell from the detective's eye, staining his cheek with humanity that his intellect could no longer deny.


	7. Know Me, Fix Me

John had never seen Sherlock cry before. He hadn't even considered that Sherlock was _capable_ of something like that. Though only a tear or two had rolled down his face, John realized he was looking at a side of Sherlock that no one had seen before. Even Mycroft, his own brother, didn't know this side of Sherlock. John stared in amazement. Sherlock was gripping John's hand so tightly that pins and needless ran through his fingers. He laid his free hand on Sherlock's back with compassionate. "It's alright, Sherlock…. It'll be okay," John soothed. He had not fully forgiven Sherlock, but John couldn't stand to see him so weak with distress.

"Is it, John? Is it 'alright?' I've been lying for far too long for it to be alright again."

"Lying?"

Sherlock took a shuddering breath and straightened his back, trying to gain some semblance of composure. "Yes, John. Lying to you, to myself, to everyone." He shook his head in defeat and continued, "The lie was that I could detach myself from humanity forever. I acted like I didn't need you… like I didn't need anyone. I had everyone fooled, too, thinking that I was cold and harsh, that I couldn't be affected. What's worse is that I fell victim to my own lie. I had pretended I was above it all for so long that I nearly forgot that it was a hoax!" He sighed. "The bitter truth of it, John, is that I am unremarkably human," Sherlock spat the words out like they were venom to him.

"I've been suppressing it for as long as I can remember," he continued. "I buried my pain and my joy. I was tired of such a fickle life, governed by irrationality and emotions that I could not control. I couldn't go on like that, so I cut myself off. I built up my walls and secluded myself from humanity, objectively observing the world with an acute perception that only I possessed. No one ever knew me, not really. And even if they did, they wouldn't understand. My mind was always stronger than theirs and they hated me for it. Even when I was a child they terrorized me, picking on the smart kid like so many insolent little gits their age do." Sherlock scoffed in repugnance. "They never thought I'd come out on top, though. I'm certain they never thought at all," Sherlock seethed in reminiscence.

"No one ever knew you…" John repeated thoughtfully. His face showed concern. "Do I know you?"

"Of course you do. Just look at me! My own family thinks I haven't got a heart, John. What does that tell you? I've done a phenomenal job keeping up this charade, but now that my shell has cracked I can't seem to stop it. The puncture in my shell is spreading, criss-crossing in every direction like a spider-web crack in glass. I can't seem bury it back down. I've awakened these long-dead feelings and now they will not rest. My walls have broken down and I won't be able to fix them."

John moved closer to Sherlock and wrapped his arms around him. "You don't have to fix them," he said softly, his embrace comforting the detective. Sherlock leaned into the hug, savoring the feeling of John's arms around him.

"What a fool I was to lie for so long," he said in a melancholy voice, wrapping his arms around John's torso. In return, John pulled back a bit and held Sherlock's face in his hands.

John smiled and his eyes sparkled as he gazed at Sherlock. "Idiot," he murmured and kissed the detective's lips.

_Note: I know it's short, but I felt like this was a good place to pick up the next chapter ;) _


	8. The Uncommon Man

When John pulled back, Sherlock's lips parted, searching for words. "Breathe," John reminded him, and he took a shallow breath. The kiss left him in a trance. John placed his hand on the detective's face, trying hard not to laugh at his silly reaction. Sherlock's response was to be expected—he was the ever-detached detective, after all. Caressing Sherlock's cheek, John asked sweetly, "Are you alright?"

John knew that Sherlock was more than alright, but he couldn't help himself from asking. It was so adorable—and rare—to see Holmes at a loss for words. Sherlock only stared at him in response. Watson laughed, "I've broken you!"

"I'm afraid you have," Sherlock replied softly. His expression was far away, as if he hadn't quite recovered from his ecstasy yet. "Thank you," the breathy words escaped his tingling lips.

John took the uncommon gratitude with a smile and yawned. "God, I'm exhausted. And my back is bloody killing me! You definitely won't find me sleeping against that couch again any time soon. I need rest." He rubbed his forehead and sighed.

Sherlock was brought back to reality, disappointed at the prospect of leaving John's side. "Oh," he scratched his neck and reluctantly made for the door.

"I didn't say you had to leave." There was a soft hopefulness ringing in John's voice. He wanted Sherlock to stay with him, to lie with him as he drifted into a peaceful sleep. Surely, Sherlock would understand.

"Why would I stay if you're going to take a nap?"

John sighed in disdainful disappointment. He had almost credited Sherlock for being too human. "No reason at all." John kicked his slippers off and laid down. "Close the door on your way out."

The detective looked at John, once again lacking words. He always believed in the axiom that if one's speech contributed no worth, then it was not worth speaking at all—though he usually excused himself from that rule—and now he found himself in a moment to which words could not contribute. He was at a loss.

Sherlock turned and walked slowly to the door. He held the knob for a moment and looked back at John. He didn't want to leave, and he was positive that John didn't want him to leave either. For a moment he was conflicted. He smiled, closing the door, and walked back to John's bed. Sherlock slid between the covers and laid beside John, who looked at him with gratitude. He took Sherlock's hand.

They laid together, John on his back, and Sherlock curled up on his side. As the detective watched John, his mind reached a record stillness. Racing thoughts and rushing deductions were of no use to him here. He just watched patiently as Watson's chest rose and fell with each breath. He had the strangest urge. He longed for more closeness, for a comfort that could only be provided by love. For the first time in his life, Sherlock craved a companionship that only John could give him.

Sherlock propped his head up on a pillow and stared at John. When latter noticed, he looked over and gave a small but sincere smile.

Sherlock admired his flatmate. John's crystal-blue eyes, his earnest facial expressions… Sherlock could read him like a book, a book beautifully bound with worn leather and the sweetest text between. Sherlock imagined that if John were a book, he would be filled with philosophy and silly morals, theories on pointless things like existentialism and aesthetics, things Sherlock hardly considered noteworthy. And yet, despite all the scientific inaccuracy, Sherlock would read and savor every last word. Sherlock would consider John H. Watson to be the finest of all literature, no matter how speculative his contents may be.

Under Sherlock's thoughtful stare, John's face began to turn pink with a sudden self-consciousness. He did not move away, but his heart palpitated as Sherlock examined him.

In a sudden and beautiful movement, Sherlock leaned into the doctor's lips, kissing him more intently than before. He pulled away for a mere moment to look at his now-lover. John entwined his fingers in Sherlock's dark curls, bringing their lips closer and gently locking them again. Sherlock's lips parted ever so slightly and indulged in the warm moisture of John's tongue as it traced gently across his own. John wrapped an arm around Sherlock's thin torso, thinking back to their embrace the night before. Sherlock undoubtedly made the same connection because his heart suddenly ached.

"John, I-" he tried to protest, but he couldn't. John couldn't fathom leaving the warmth of Sherlock's lips for even a moment. The detective pried himself away and placed his hand on John's chest to prevent another advance. His eyes were raw with emotion and anguish. He shook his head and furrowed his brow, mercilessly cursing himself. "I can't forgive myself. And you shouldn't, either."

"Sherlock, there's nothing to forgive. You did nothing wrong. Don't you see? I chose you. I chose _you_. I knew what the stakes were, but I didn't let that stop me. Being with you is worth every moment of stress and frustration," John smiled with honest understanding. "I wouldn't stick around if I didn't intend to stay. Danger and fear, criminals and murders—I will stand by you through it all. I know the cost, but I'm willing to do this for you. You told me that you love me, and here I am! How can you not see_?_ Sherlock, _I love you back_."

Overcome and touched by the confession and promise, Sherlock dove upon John's lips, embellishing his face with adoration. John wrapped his arms tight around Sherlock, and the detective pressed himself against John in return. He couldn't possibly get close enough. He unknowingly rubbed his pelvis against John's, causing both men to exclaim as desire overwhelmed their bodies. Their kissing grew passionate—undeniable—only broken by the occasional exhalation or whimper of pleasure. John suddenly found himself on top of Sherlock, kissing the pale skin on his neck. He ran his tongue across the tender flesh, sending shivers through Sherlock and causing him to gasp in delight. The detective unbuttoned his shirt, and John warmly accepted the invitation.

He moved lower and lower on Sherlock's body, tasting his way down to the supple skin above his collarbone. He left a purple lovebite, and worked down to Sherlock's heaving chest and fluttering stomach. Just below Sherlock's navel, he reached a trail of hair leading to exciting and unexplored territories. The temptation was overwhelming. He looked up and saw that Sherlock was in pure heaven, so John sucked gently on the skin between above his pelvis bone. John felt his member grow stiff as Sherlock moaned aloud. He tore off the detective's trousers and pants without a word of protest; Sherlock was all-consumed by his desire. John heard Sherlock's weak pleas, begging, urging him to continue.

So he did; John positioned himself between Sherlock's bare legs and held the thickened member to his mouth. He gave his head a small lick and Sherlock's legs writhed in response. With a smile, John went down on Sherlock, taking the shaft in his mouth. The detective's back arched in surprise, praising the hot envelopment of John's mouth. He gasped in shock and pleasure. John slid Sherlock's penis slowly out of his mouth and back in, stopping only to suck briefly on the swollen head. He could already taste pre-come exuding from his lover's inexperienced body. Impassioned by lust and eagerness to please his lover, John worked the penis in and out of his mouth with more speed and infatuation. He moaned indulgently as Sherlock's member moved across his tongue. The taste, the smoothness, the newfound pleasure of his lover thrilled fJohn. Taking the full length of Sherlock in his mouth, John eventually made the detective cry out. The moist skin was so lovely against John's tongue, convulsing and releasing a hot white burst of approval.

Feeling all of Sherlock's muscle relax and grow tired with satisfaction, John placed loving little kisses along the detective's thighs. He lapped up some of the discharge and wiped the rest away with his sheet. Sherlock's splayed his arms above his head, barely able to catch his breath. John was so experienced, so knowledgeable. It was easy for him please Sherlock, for the virgin detective was unprepared and had no idea what fantastic elations sex could hold. He waited with laboured breathing for sensation to return to his limbs, watching John kiss him affectionately. John Watson was an uncommon man to Sherlock: a man who stayed with him, a man who adored him, a man who made him cry out in primal ecstasy. He loved this uncommon man with all of his life.


End file.
